Chapter Ten #2
The days following the Western Heights run blurred into one another, marked by the monotony of peacetime military life.
September deepened; the wind off the Channel grew colder, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from the town below.
Laurence and the other subalterns–ensigns waiting for their lieutenancy to come up—were drilled daily: manual exercise, platoon movements, skirmishing in extended order, square against cavalry—and each evening found them more weary, more silent, more accustomed to the rhythm of command and obedience.
Then, Captain Owen Jones summoned the six newest officers to a cleared patch of ground behind the barracks, where a dozen wooden posts had been driven into the earth at irregular intervals.
Each post wore a crude straw dummy; each dummy had been fitted with a wooden sabre or foil.
The light company men stood in a loose ring, watching with the detached interest of men who had long since mastered the exercise.
“Gentlemen,” Jones said, “you have learned to march and to run and to stand in a square while the imaginary horse charges. Today, you will learn to use that pretty sword at your side when the horse is no longer imaginary.”
He drew his own sabre—a curved 1796 pattern light cavalry blade—and saluted the dummies with theatrical courtesy.
“First lesson: the point defeats the edge. Second lesson: speed defeats strength. Third lesson: you are not fencing in a drawing-room. You are killing a man before he kills you. Begin.”
The drill was brutal in its simplicity. Each subaltern was paired with a light company corporal who knew the sabre as well as he knew his own name.
Laurence drew Corporal Daniel Rees, a wiry Welshman who had lost the tip of his left thumb at Badajoz and thereafter fought left-handed with terrifying efficiency.
“On guard, sir,” Rees said, raising his foil. “Thrust to the face—parry—thrust to the body—recover.”
Laurence lunged. Rees parried with contemptuous ease, stepped inside the thrust, and tapped Laurence smartly on the ribs with the buttoned point.
“Too slow, Mr. Bennet. Again.”
They repeated the sequence twenty times, then thirty. Laurence’s arm burned; sweat ran into his eyes. Rees never raised his voice, never mocked, but the steady tap-tap-tap of foil against ribs spoke louder than any reprimand.
Across the ground, Taylor was faring little better; Finch had already been disarmed twice; Langley’s foil lay in the grass while he nursed a bruised wrist. Merton and Hammond fared worst—both were breathing hard, faces flushed, pride visibly fraying.
Jones moved among them like a hawk, correcting with a word here, a sharp demonstration there.
“Mr. Bennet,” he called at last, “step out. Show me your lunge.”
Laurence advanced, saluted, and lunged. Jones parried without apparent effort, riposted to the shoulder, and stopped the point an inch from Laurence’s throat.
“Better,” Jones said. “But still thinking of the salon. In the field, you have one second less to decide. Hesitate, and you are dead. Again.”
The lesson continued until dusk. When the bugle sounded recall, Laurence’s sword-arm trembled so violently he could scarcely sheathe the blade. His ribs ached where Rees had struck him; his pride ached worse.
That night, he sat in his chamber, coat discarded, staring at the sabre laid across the table.
The hilt was still warm from his hand. He thought of the endless repetitions, the bruises, the cold nod from Jones that was the nearest thing to praise he had yet received.
And he thought—suddenly, furiously—that he had not purchased a commission to be schooled like a schoolboy by corporals and captains who treated him as an amusement.
Laurence rose, paced the small room, and stopped before the narrow window.
The lights of Dover twinkled below; the sea was a black expanse beyond.
For the first time since his arrival, Laurence Bennet allowed the thought full voice: he could sell.
The commission had cost the family dear, but half-pay officers were sold every day.
With the money he could return to London, find some post in a counting-house through Uncle Gardiner, or purchase a share in a merchant venture: anything but this daily humiliation.
The idea took root like a weed. By morning, it had grown thorns.
***
Over the next three weeks, the sword drill continued without mercy.
Jones varied the exercises: cut-and-thrust against moving opponents, disarming drills, and point work at the dummy posts until straw flew.
Laurence improved—he could now hold his own against Rees for a full minute before being touched—but improvement brought no joy, only the bitter certainty that he was being moulded into something he had never wished to become.
Later, after a particularly punishing session in which Jones himself had taken each subaltern in turn and disarmed them all within six passes, Laurence returned to his billet, soaked in sweat and shaking with fatigue and anger.
He stripped off his coat, threw it across the chair, and sat heavily upon the bed.
Enough, Laurence Bennet thought. Enough.
He took a piece of paper and a pen and wrote two letters.
The first was to a half-pay captain he had met in a Dover tavern the week before—a man named Withers who had expressed interest in purchasing a lieutenancy in a light regiment.
The second was to his brother James—brief, stiff, asking for the necessary formalities to be prepared at home should he decide to sell.
He sealed both, then hesitated. The letter to Withers he would post tomorrow. The one to James, he laid aside. He would send it only when the thing was done.
That night Laurence slept badly, waking several times with the echo of Jones’s voice in his ears: “One second—less—to decide.”
The next morning, Laurence Bennet rose early, dressed in plain clothes, and walked into Dover. He found Captain Withers in the tap-room of the King’s Head, nursing a pot of ale. Withers was a stout man of forty, red-faced, with the look of one who had drunk his way out of the service.
“You’ve decided, then?” Withers asked, eyeing Laurence with shrewd interest.
“I believe so,” Laurence replied. “The price we spoke of—five hundred and fifty pounds?”
Withers nodded. “Cash down. I’ll need the colonel’s approval, of course, but that’s easily managed. You’ll sign the transfer today?”
Laurence felt a moment’s hesitation—a cold prickle at the back of his neck—, but he pushed it down.
“Today,” he said.
They shook hands. Withers promised to bring the money by evening. Laurence left the tavern with his heart beating hard, half triumph, half dread.
He returned to barracks in time for the afternoon drill. Jones was waiting, sabre in hand.
“Mr. Bennet,” he said pleasantly, “you look thoughtful. Something on your mind?”
“Nothing of consequence, sir,” Laurence answered.
Jones studied him a moment longer, then shrugged.
“Then let us see if your sword is as quick as your tongue.”
The drill was merciless. Laurence fought with desperate energy, as though each parry might fend off the decision he had made. He lasted longer than usual against Rees; once, he even scored a touch. Jones noticed.
“Better, Mr. Bennet. Much better.”
Laurence said nothing. The praise tasted like ash.
That evening, as the light failed, a letter arrived from Longbourn—his father’s hand upon the cover. Laurence broke the seal with fingers that shook slightly.
My dear Laurence,
Your last letter has reached me, and I perceive in it a tone which persuades me that the present delay in your advancement sits somewhat heavily upon your spirits.
This is not altogether surprising in a young man who has only lately exchanged the expectations of youth for the realities of a profession.
Yet, it is precisely at such moments that a steadiness of mind is most necessary.
You tell me that the lieutenancy for which provision has already been made must wait upon a vacancy, and that no such vacancy is likely to occur before the year is out.
I cannot pretend that this circumstance is agreeable, but neither is it uncommon.
The army, like most institutions conducted by men, advances by opportunity as much as by merit, and a man who allows his patience to fail at the first obstruction would find himself unfit for any career worth pursuing.
You have already taken the first step which many young gentlemen never take at all: you have entered the service, and you have placed yourself among men who expect from you both endurance and example.
That the next step must wait does not diminish the value of the first. On the contrary, the interval is often of greater consequence than the promotion itself.
A man who learns his duty thoroughly as an ensign seldom makes a poor lieutenant when the moment arrives.
Remember also that time passes whether we fret at it or employ it.
A year spent in dissatisfaction will not shorten the wait by a single day; a year spent in strengthening your body, improving your judgment, and observing the habits of better soldiers than yourself will ensure that when the commission does arrive, you will be equal to it.
I would rather hear that my son has become a capable officer before he becomes a titled one.
You have never been a man to shrink from exertion, and I should be very sorry to learn that you have begun now. Difficult beginnings are common enough in every profession. The difference between those who succeed and those who do not is seldom talent; it is perseverance.
Therefore, do not allow the thought of delay to weigh upon you more than it deserves. Perform your duties with exactness, keep your temper, and remember that the vacancy you wait for will arrive all the sooner for being patiently awaited. When it does, it will find you prepared.
Your mother sends her affection, and your brothers often speak of you. I do not doubt that you will justify the confidence which has already been placed in you.
Your affectionate father,
Mr Bennet
Laurence read the letter twice, then folded it carefully and placed it in his valise. The triumph he had felt in the tap-room evaporated. In its place came a hollow ache.
He did not post the letter to Captain Withers. Instead, Laurence Bennet sat long into the night, staring at the candle flame, and understood—too late—that the decision he had nearly made would have cost more than money.
The next morning, he rose, dressed in full uniform, and reported for sword drill as usual. Captain Jones greeted him with the same cool nod.
“Ready, Mr. Bennet?”
“Yes, sir,” Laurence said. And for the first time the words felt almost true.